Big Bad Wolf
by LoyaulteMeLie
Summary: Follow-up to 'The Dispossessed'. In the Mirror Universe, Reed is finally poised within sight of his goal...
1. Chapter 1

**Star Trek and all its intellectual property is owned by Paramount/CBS. No infringement intended, no profit made.**

 **This story has not been been beta-read, so any mistakes in it are mine.**

 **Warning. Whilst not graphic, this story deals with adult issues and features some violence. If stories of this nature offend you, please do not read it.**

 **OC Em Gomez used by kind permission of Chrysa.**

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Well. It's been a long time coming. But I'm finally here.

I've had to tread carefully, more carefully than I ever had in all my life before – a life spent surviving an environment where the weak go to the wall, unmourned and almost unnoticed. I've had to negotiate circumstances compared to which walking blindfolded through a minefield would be a walk in the park. I've lived through six assassination attempts (that I know of), and killed the man I could have loved; and I'm still here.

And at long last, I'm going to meet him.

Sato?

She's still in power. Give her her due, she's good; she wouldn't have lasted the first three months if she hadn't been. That said, she's undoubtedly been getting excellent advice. Mayweather may have been a mere sergeant when he first caught the Imperial eye, but his meteoric rise to power since hasn't gone to his head. He's still the cool chess player who used to give me a run for my money occasionally aboard _Enterprise_ when I got bored of terrorizing people and decided to test my intellect instead; he takes care to stand behind the throne, but he's very _close_ behind it, and he has the massive presence of a thundercloud on a hot August afternoon.

(We've encountered each other now and then. His gaze measures me and doesn't show what he makes of me. I don't like it, but since Sato is amused by our guarded neutrality that's probably how it'll stay for the present.)

Nevertheless, even the might of the all-powerful Terran Empire isn't quite as focused in one place as Empress Sato and her little pet might like. They've done good work in that direction – _Defiant_ certainly helped in that regard – but there are still power blocs that must be taken into account. Within these, of course, are their own sets of checks and balances, and the bloc that I'm part of is one of those that Her High and Mightiness regards with some suspicion. Justifiably so, I might add. The training that goes to make a MACO produces the soldiers that built the Empire, long before Commander Archer first heard the whisper of an alien ship in Tholian territory. The Empire's moment of weakness came because those who should have known better moved too far and too fast, extending our power faster than we could consolidate the support for it. Under Sato, that's changing. Progress has been slower, but foundations are being laid that will hold instead of collapsing.

The power in the MACOs, however, has been slowly and subtly shifting in the meantime. I could admit to being surprised that I had it in me to move so stealthily for so long; certainly I enjoy the stalking part of any kill, but I knew from the start that what I wanted to achieve would take more planning and more care than anything I'd ever conceived of in my life before.

And now I'm here. Somewhere I wouldn't be if _he_ didn't recognise my power; if he didn't want to meet me in person, and weigh me up for himself.

There are sentries on the door. They're built like brick shit-houses, of course. Each of them carries a Klingon disruptor tucked into their belt as well as a standard plasma rifle in their hands, and eyes me malevolently as I walk quietly up the corridor, Em at my back. If they didn't know full well we're authorised to be here we'd already be dead, and in my heart of hearts I'm still not even sure we'll live long enough to walk through the door between them.

But we wouldn't even be here if _he_ wasn't interested. If it was just a matter of simply eliminating me, I prefer to believe that he could have arranged the seventh assassination attempt. And assassinations arranged in that quarter have an exceptionally low survival rate, to which I probably wouldn't have made any noticeable contribution.

Or he may simply have a sense of humour like mine. It would be singularly piquant for the door to jerk open at the last minute and his face be the last thing either of us see as we burn up in disruptor fire.

I'm hoping this won't be the case, of course, but my always temperamental internal workings admit to a certain amount of anxiety.

Rumour has never mentioned that he has a sense of humour, it has to be said.

It would be a damned inconvenient moment for him to find one.

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	2. Chapter 2

Somewhat to my surprise, it was through Em that he made the approach. I knew something was up when she sidled into my office one morning with an expression that in anyone else I'd have described as 'dazed'. My deduction was confirmed when she insisted on checking the place out for listening devices – I mean, give me strength, _my office…_

(It's just as well for somebody that she didn't find anything. Though I'd been a bit too busy lately for any recreational activities, even for testing the latest version of the Booth that Phlox had built to some new specs he said he'd thought up, I'd definitely have found the time to make enquiries over that.)

Anyway, she didn't. And when she'd finished carrying out her superfluous hunt for something that was never going to be there, she sidled up to me (a worrying event in itself) and whispered in my ear.

I was naturally sitting down, because with Em going around the place like a sniffer dog on steroids I wanted to get one hand on the spare disrupter I kept strapped under my desk; I already had a phase pistol strapped to my thigh, of course, but with my SiC having apparently mislaid a significant number of her marbles, you can't be too careful. It turned out that this was a Very Good Thing Indeed, because although the words she finally whispered in my ear heralded the culmination of years of painstaking effort, for just a moment I wasn't sure my knees would hold me up.

Apparently the kind invitation was extended during the course of a horizontal pas-de-deux with a stranger she'd met in a bar. This is one of Em's little hobbies. Every now and then she wanders down into the seedier ends of town and picks up anything that takes her fancy. It's just a bit of fun: mostly she gets a shag, and now and again this is followed up by an attempted robbery or even a murder, in which case she gets a shag and a bit of practice as well. The police simply tidy away the body when it's found in a nearby alley, and tick another undesirable as disposed of.

Strange, but whatever floats your boat, that's what I say…

On this occasion, the stranger not only got away shagged and alive, but also managed to engage the parts of my SiC that reside above her neck, which I understand would be quite a feat in the usual run of things during this sort of encounter. I don't know how he managed to persuade her he was telling the truth, but she can sniff out a lie quicker than Commander Tucker used to be able to sniff out a malfunctioning relay in a circuit.

(Tucker. I wonder where he is these days. Probably still out at the yards, slavishly turning out _Defiant_ clones in the service of the All Powerful Terran Empire. I know Sato gave him T'Pol by way of a reward when he finally produced the complete schematic. Last time I heard, she was wearing a duranium collar and chain, and shackled to his bed. I suppose the man has to have some recreation… )

Well. That was then and this is now, and time bends and stretches strangely as I walk up the corridor. It seems to take me forever, waiting through every endless second for those plasma rifles to lift, aim and fire, and yet at one and the same time it hardly seems like I've had time to draw breath before I'm at the door.

I don't let the sentries see anything of my inner turmoil, of course. They see what I want them to see, the arrogant little bastard who's bothered their boss so much he's finally decided he wants to meet me in person. They see the man who rose from a mere Major on _Enterprise_ to be the man who's managed to get half of the MACOs in the Empire jumping when he barks.

Naturally we're unarmed. Equally naturally, that wouldn't save either of them if we decided to play nasty – not now we're this close. If they don't know that, their boss is employing idiots. An interesting possibility, but unfortunately a remote one.

I don't even think about putting my hand to the door control. I just pick my victim and stare.

I'll give him his due, he holds out longer than most. But eventually he caves, borne down more by my cold certainty than by the stripes on my uniform, which don't impress him.

He keys in the command to open the door. (The supposed code for it was sent to my ultra-secure personal inbox this morning – the one that nobody has access to that I haven't granted. I was only mildly irritated, and didn't waste time trying to backtrack the source of the message.) I should probably be reassured by the fact that the code he enters is the same as the one I was sent; by the extreme care he takes to hit each button with absolute precision I can guess that an incorrect code would be the trigger for a fatal electric shock. On this door, you get it right or you don't live to realise you didn't. The computer terminal in my office has exactly the same friendly disposition.

The door hisses open. Behind me, Em draws in a breath that isn't quite soundless.

Now for it.

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	3. Chapter 3

I was vaguely expecting the apartment within to be dark, but quite the opposite: it's painfully bright, an expanse of arctic walls and a high ceiling pierced with downlights, all that brilliance bouncing off polished chrome and spotless white leather furniture. The floor is of some highly polished wood that's too pale even for pine.

There's a desk, of course, of the same wood as the floor, but it's at the rear of the room, and the chair behind it is unoccupied. Its polished surface is empty, as is every surface I can see. It's a room that is as unrevealing as a mirror, for a mirror shows nothing of what it conceals behind it.

The man I've waited so long to meet is seated in a luxuriously padded easy chair that's placed just in front of the desk. Another of exactly the same design is placed at a careful forty-five degree angle perhaps a metre away from it – close enough to allow relaxed conversation, but far enough to give enough notice of any suddenly unfriendly intent.

Two chairs.

Em's quick on the uptake. Without waiting for a word from me, she steps aside and takes up station beside the door. She can watch, and at this distance she can certainly hear, but she won't be close enough to intervene.

My pulse judders as I walk up the room. Unbidden, I stop at the precisely correct distance from him and adopt the regulation 'at ease' posture. After all, he's technically my superior officer.

We're both in uniform. I took particular care over mine, in view of the occasion, but I still don't measure up to the perfection of his. Its crisp lines would have a Savile Row tailor prostrate with admiration.

There's a little silence, while we look each other over.

He's a few years younger than me, but bigger built. The immaculate uniform doesn't do anything to hide the breadth of his shoulders, and when he's standing he'll be taller than I am by a few inches. He's handsome too, in a strong-jawed sort of way, with short, cropped dark hair and a firm, modelled mouth. His eyes, however, are hidden behind a reflective visor. Only the angle of his head tells me he's studying me carefully.

As the senior officer, it's up to him to speak first. However, instead of speaking he rises from the chair and walks, very soft-footed, to the back of the desk. One of the drawers responds to what's undoubtedly a contact-pad and slides silently open. He takes a PADD from it and walks back to the chair, where he sits and studies it for a moment. Then he leans forward and proffers it, freeing me to move.

The information is fairly comprehensive, but not complete. Still, it's enough to show me why he felt the need to arrange this little rendezvous; there's sufficient there to make even this formidable man aware that there's more to me than meets the eye.

A lesser enemy would have used this silence as a weapon, intimidating me with it. I'm quite sure that this is not the case here, however. His silence is that of confidence. When he has something to say, he'll speak. Until then, he'll learn more by listening, and not just to whatever I say. His whole attitude is one of concentrated attention, like a cat at a mouse-hole.

"The information appears to be relatively accurate, sir." I'm pleased by how calm my voice sounds. And it's perfectly true: what's there _is_ mostly accurate. It's not complete, but what there is, is accurate. So accurate that I make a note to instigate an investigation on my return (assuming I do return) into exactly how that much high-level information became available to him.

(Note to self: 1. Summon Phlox. 2. Make it clear he doesn't have anything more important to do. 3. Arrange for an accident to befall any transport he tries to use to get out of the system. 4. Remind him that lack of co-operation with me is counter-indicative to a long and healthy life. 5. Arrange for him to spend a few minutes in the Booth to reinforce the idea.)

"I've been keeping an eye on you, Mister Reed," he says at last, his voice no more than thoughtful. It doesn't surprise me that he's American, but his voice is well modulated, his accent nowhere near as irksome as that redneck Tucker's. "You seem to have discovered a certain … talent … for attracting support."

There's hardly any point in denying it, so I don't bother. I simply wait, my expression one of respectful enquiry.

"Your loyalty to the Empire, is, of course, beyond question," he pursues. "Her Imperial Highness the Empress Sato has assured me of that fact."

An interesting thought. I wonder if I believe it. Hoshi must have been in an exceptionally good mood during _that_ particular conversation, or else she was being sarcastic. Probably the latter, actually. During our … well, shall we call it 'initial acquaintance', before she attracted the attention of Captain Forrest, I interrogated her on several occasions. Horizontally of course. And I suppose I don't recall asking her if she minded. Not that she seemed to – quite the contrary. The shape of things to come, you might say…

I drag my mind from the recollection of Ensign Hoshi Sato's perfect naked body (which threatens to become a distraction I can ill afford), and reply with the smoothness of pouring cream that I'm honoured Her Highness has such a high opinion of me. That wasn't quite what she conveyed on the one occasion she visited me in Sickbay after I regained consciousness; I got the distinct feeling that she found my misfortune positively hilarious, but I'm prepared to let bygones be bygones.

For the moment, at least.

He leans back in his chair. Possibly his eyes narrow, but I can't see them if they do.

There's a long pause, after which he gestures me to sit. A second gesture points Em to the sideboard, where on the shelf inside there is an ice cooler with a bottle of wine in it, and two glasses.

Her composure is admirable. She pours the wine deftly, without spilling a drop, and brings the two glasses over to us on the antique silver tray.

To wait – properly deferential – until he's taken his first would be to signal far too clearly that I acknowledge my inferior status. Just as his fingers close around the delicate stem, my fingers swoop in (smooth, not snatching) and take mine. My timing's exceptional, if I say it myself.

The reflective visor notes the movement. His face is perfectly impassive.

Em returns the tray to the sideboard and takes up station again at the door. Her face is still, but her eyes are wary. If I die, so will she.

We both sip our wine. It's not a drink I favour all that much, but even I can tell the quality of it. It probably costs more a bottle than the Empress's hairstylist earns in a year.

"So." He's completely relaxed. "You're probably wondering why I've invited you here."

"I have one or two theories." The Army of the Dispossessed. If I were capable of feeling horror, it would have horrified me how many they were, when I started my quiet investigation. As it was, they came to my hand one by one; wary, curious, dangerous, looking for answers. I drew them in, soft and wooing, the meat of the knowledge they wanted dripping red on my outstretched fingers.

My outrage became their outrage. All of us, used, stripped of our humanity and our will. And _someone_ was to blame.

I haven't found him yet. (Or it may even be a her; I've no illusions about little girls being made of sugar and spice. Every little girl I've ever shagged was made of spite and ambition and sex, usually in that order.) But I will. I'm close. Once or twice I've almost smelled him. And one of these days his luck will run out.

Mine host sips the wine again, reflectively. "I've decided to offer you a deal."

It takes some self-control for me not to blink; I hadn't expected him to be quite this upfront about it. There again, this may just be a gambit, played to see how I react. If so, he's in for a disappointment. I can front a poker-face with the best of them.

"I've heard it said that everyone has their price." Lucifer knows that's the maxim the Empire was built on. Buy up the big boys and you can have all the little ones for nothing.

His eyebrows lift just a fraction in polite acknowledgement. There's the hint of a courteous, crystalline smile. Then his free hand drops to the padding at the side of the chair, where presumably he presses a button, because one of the arctic walls suddenly develops a door. As this hisses sideways into the wall, two MACO minions push a gurney into the room, and park it with military precision in front of us before turning and marching out again.

The chap strapped to it doesn't seem particularly in need of medical treatment. Oldish, short-cropped greying hair, lined face, but he seems reasonably intact, though he's either asleep (unlikely) or unconscious. His coat's leather and expensive. His shoes are black too, hardly worn.

"Should I know him?" I enquire, after this short survey. Seems like a harmless enough bloke to me. The sort who sits in a plush office arranging corrupt deals for a middling-important government department while his wife fucks the ski instructor in St Moritz.

The edge of a smile reveals even teeth. "You know _of_ him."

I'm not normally slow on the uptake, but this one definitely takes a second to register. This easy … it _can't_ be this easy.

Nevertheless, I have to put the glass down a little hurriedly on the polished wooden floor. It's old, thin and exquisitely beautiful, and it would be rather a shame if the pressure of my fingers were to break it.

"His name's Harris," the calm voice goes on. "I believe you've been rather anxious to make his acquaintance."

I'm on my feet before I know I'm moving. I don't touch, I just bend over the gurney and look closely. I can feel saliva gathering in my mouth, and my heart is pounding. There's no movement in the other chair, but the visor watches attentively.

 _I've decided to offer you a deal._ So, this is what's on the table, literally and metaphorically. If it _is_ who I think it is, who I want it to be – and I'll need much more than a sight of an unconscious man on a gurney before I shake hands on anything.

There's no haste about the second press of the button. The MACOs are evidently waiting for the summons, because they march in again and wheel the gurney away. The doorway vanishes, leaving the wall as smooth as before.

"The taste spoils if it gets warm."

I respond to the mild remark; it won't do to waste a wine this expensive. I take my seat again and relax. I'm pleased to note that my hand is perfectly steady. There isn't a ripple on the surface as I raise the glass to my lips again.

When I speak, it's to that glass-smooth surface that reflects the brilliance of the downlights overhead. "If he's for sale, tell me the price."

The visor turns to me, but he doesn't answer immediately. "You don't care for wine."

"Not something I've ever acquired a taste for, no." _No offence intended_ would be too conciliatory. When I was in the lab they gave me water in a bowl. Some days the class clown pissed in it.

The offending organ had been sewn inside his mouth when I kicked him to death a couple of years later.

The slightest shift of light in the mirroring tells me the invisible eyes behind it have lifted from the contemplation of his glass to contemplate me instead. "So tell me your favourite tipple."

I answer without a second's hesitation. "Revenge."

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	4. Chapter 4

He smiles, puts down the glass beside his own chair and rises without haste to his feet.

Military discipline says it's not done to sit when a superior officer is standing, so I do the same. I'm not quite sure how it's happened, but we're face to face, and I can smell the faint musk of his aftershave.

Desire wakes in me, which I suppress ruthlessly. I want Harris, I want proof, and then I want my revenge.

It's a delicious shock when he puts his hand on me. I don't move a muscle. My eyes reflected in the visor don't even blink, though assorted sets of nerves fire off salvoes of excitement as the slow seconds pass.

Presently his other hand goes to his face. He unhooks the visor and tosses it carelessly onto the chair, and as there's a faint gasp from behind me, everything becomes brutally clear.

His eyes are blue. Not blue as in blue irises, blue as in azure coins, blazing blue staring back into mine.

"I was there too, Reed," he whispers, his mouth bare inches from mine. "I killed the Alpha. I _am_ the Alpha. The rest is up to you."

Blue. Memory is blue. _Obey, kill, survive!_

With a whimper of understanding I drop down in front of him. The sensation of his jaws closing on my neck is an appalling joy.

Em watches without a word. She has a small tattoo on her left breast, just above the nipple: the pawprint of a wolf.

We snap and snarl for a moment, as fabric rends, and then there is a silence punctuated by staccato breathing and the impact of flesh on flesh.

Afterwards I lift my face, and he leans over my shoulder and licks my mouth tenderly. I have been accepted.

 _We are pack_.

Soon Sato will have cause to regret that she saw my injuries and thought them amusing. As for Mayweather … we'll see. He may be useful. Or there again, he may be entertainment.

I wriggle a little, swivelling to bring my head up, licking at the mouth above me; the movement feels natural already. It's the way wolves beg to be fed, and I'm famished with a long-held hunger that demands to be satisfied. I no longer care about proof. I believe.

Sound is rumbling in my chest. When my mouth opens, it emerges as a growl that hardly sounds human. _"Harrrrisss…"_

The expression of satiation shifts subtly. His mouth moves in what isn't a smile as he touches the button again.

The MACOs bring the gurney back in. Their eyes are locked level. They park it and go, without a backward glance.

We stand. The movement feels awkward, unnatural. We're more used to being on all fours.

A drop of saliva makes a stain on the clean cotton shirt under the leather coat. But something's wrong. I snarl. My brain won't give me the words I want.

There's a hypospray lying beside the man's face. Alpha looks at me and picks it up in one paw. With a deft movement he presses it to the base of the prisoner's neck. Then he flicks off the restraints. It'll be more fun that way. We can enjoy the chase first.

Consciousness comes back to the man who sent both of us to be robbed of our humanity.

His reactions are fast. To my delight, he tries to run, but the doors are locked and he has nowhere to go; Em fends him off effortlessly. We herd him between us, and I listen to the terror in his breathing. As we finally pin him down, he even tries to speak, though not for long.

Once or twice through the noises that follow I vaguely hear Em vomiting her guts up; I never realised she was that squeamish… Nevertheless, when at last silence has fallen she's still upright beside the door, somewhat green-hued in complexion and looking slightly sheepish about the small puddle of puke in front of her.

It would be churlish to say the least to make an issue of that minor mess when there's five litres or so of crimson spilled all over the hitherto immaculate landscape. The cleaning detail tasked with putting all this to rights will probably put in for a month's overtime. As for what remained of our uniforms, at a guess they're beyond salvaging, but what the hell. It was fun while it lasted.

Alpha looks down at me calmly. "Wash." He points to the other wall, which presumably has a door leading to a bathroom. _"We_ wash."

 _"We_ wash." I turn a predatory smile on Em. She can make herself useful, to make up for the vomit. She has a dab hand with a squirt of shower gel, and it's not like Alpha and I are hungry any more. Once she gets over her initial nerves – and out of her clothes – I'm sure she'll get into the swing of things beautifully.

I ought to be afraid. I'm not. I'm proud, joyful, happy. I don't remember a time when I was so satiated, body and – for want of a better word – soul. I've found my mate, and the Army of the Dispossessed can look forward to an extremely rewarding future.

Would he want me if I didn't have so much power? Of course he wouldn't. This is real life, not some bloody damn silly fairy tale. But I _do_ have power, and he wants it and me. We could be enemies and destroy each other, or allies and take whatever we want. Personally, I'd rather seize my chances. The vista of opportunity opens before me like a landscape flooded by the dawn. Once I've settled my scores nearer home I might even pay the construction yards at Jupiter Station a visit. I'm sure Mistah Tuckah would like to see me again.

Well, probably not very much. But that's his problem. The first of many I'll have the pleasure of introducing into his sad little world.

I wonder what _did_ happen to Captain Archer?

Alpha puts his paws possessively around me and I respond, biting passionately at his mouth and nose. This, not V'Rel's kind of love, is my destiny. Once a wolf, always a wolf.

And the Big Bad Wolf is loose.

 **The End.**

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